


Southpaw

by Rancid_Rat6186



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Boxer Bucky, Dry Humping, Hand Jobs, I will fight the world for Sam Wilson, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Panic Attack, Professor/Student Relationship, Student Steve Rogers, Traumatic Brain Injury, but...they’re both in their late 20’s, college professor Bucky, mentions of nightmares and PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-07-29 16:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rancid_Rat6186/pseuds/Rancid_Rat6186
Summary: Bucky is an art history college professor that boxes on the weekends. Steve is a new college student, majoring in art history, and decides to take up boxing after a suggestion from a friend.Only, he has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing.And, he just so happens to have walked into the same gym as his art history professor.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> So, there are those outtakes from Sebastian’s Italian magazine (I think) photoshoot going around, and there’s one with him dressed up in a suit with glasses...and scabs to his knuckles.
> 
> This is the result of that picture.
> 
> I’m not even sorry.
> 
> Special thanks to kalika_999 for letting me dump this outline of a story at you-for always being game to talk about these two idiots in love. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s backstory.   
> As a southpaw, myself, I couldn’t resist having Bucky use that stance. 
> 
> No warnings that I can think of. I mean, I guess fighting? 
> 
> Hopefully at least one of you enjoys this!

There was something about the way the hand wraps cut into the skin between his fingers. The webbing of his skin pinched under the tightly pulled fabric. Blood had soaked and stained into the dulled and dirtied material, from years of use. He should probably invest in a new pair, but, well, Bucky didn’t want to say he was superstitious. Maybe, he might be just a tiny little bit. 

He wove the long fabric in and out of each finger, crisscrossing over his wrist and back around his knuckles. Scabs from last weekends fight caught on the material, pulling slightly, but not fully tearing. Bucky imagined it wouldn’t take long for the skin to open back up. 

He flexed and extended his fingers, twisting his wrist, determining how effective the wraps would be tonight. Normally, boxing nights would require gloves. But, tonight, for some reason, the venue wanted to keep things just a step above bare knuckle. So, Bucky went with his old, worn out pair of wraps. Sure, he would feel each and every punch deep down to his bones, but there was something settling about the feel of his long since fracture knuckles connecting against somebody else’s jaw and having barely anything in between. 

Bucky knows how that makes him sound. Willingly stepping into a ring to punch your way out of it against some stranger, only stopping when the other person falls down and doesn’t get back up. Okay, sure, time could run out in the allotted rounds, or the other fighter could concede. But, Bucky had never gotten that far. All of his wins had been from knock outs. 

And, well, Bucky was, currently, undefeated. 

Bucky wasn’t always like this. No. He wasn’t hard wired to violently get whatever was inside of himself, well, out. He was always a shy kid, timid on good days, damn near invisible on most others. His parents died when he was younger, and getting bounced around from house to house, Bucky remained safely locked inside of his own head. It was easier that way, he always told himself. When he turned eighteen, and aged out of foster care, he threw himself into college, acing his way through every semester, managing to get his teaching degree and doctorate completed in less than originally planned. 

It was during his last year of school, where Bucky found himself exhausted and frustrated at his writer’s block towards his dissertation. Two weeks had gone by and Bucky hadn’t managed to even write a three letter word. Four nights had gone by without sleep, and Bucky had no way to get his head to calm the fuck down. That’s how he wound up staring through the glass of a run down gym three blocks from his apartment. It was 8 o’clock at night, and there were only a few people inside. Before thinking too much about it, Bucky pulled open the door and stepped inside.

He was hit with the rush of something electrifying. Subtle, but sending a spark along Bucky’s spine, right out through his fingertips, down to his toes. Grunts and cushioned thuds echoed alongside rattling chains. Bucky watched as three men beat the living shit out of large bags hanging down from the rafters of the ceiling. Bucky was mesmerized.

“Can I help ya?”

A man about Bucky’s height, but nearly thirty years older, stopped by Bucky’s side, smiling softly at the look he recognized in Bucky’s eyes. 

“I, uhm...can I? I mean, do you...”

Bucky helplessly pointed towards one of the men punching furiously at a worn, brown leather bag. Bucky could see the indents of the man’s fists left behind after each strike. The leather had faded in certain places, Bucky assumed was from repeated use. 

“You interested in boxing?”

Bucky slowly shifted his eyes to the man beside him, then dropped quickly to his own feet. 

“I’ve never...I don’t...”

The man wrapped an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and pulled him further into the gym.

“Well, you came to the right place. We’re a small gym, and everyone that has been coming here has been for years. We look out for one another and encourage each other. I’d be more than happy to show you the basics, and get you on your way to stepping in the ring. Any of us will. We’re like a makeshift family.”

Bucky could use a family. Or, something like that. 

Three hours later, Bucky’s hands were numb, swollen, red and ripped along the knuckles as the man, Jim, who owned the gym (yes, he appreciates the irony of his name) helped Bucky through stances and combinations against one of the worn maroon bags. Bucky’s muscles screamed and his shoulders forgot how to move properly, but Bucky’s mind was as clear and quiet as it had ever been. No. That’s not true. It had never been this quiet. All from punching a bag filled with sand.

Bucky was hooked. 

Jim had said Bucky was a natural, grasping combos and angling his body to deliver the most force with little redirection from him. Jim found Bucky’s natural stance to be southpaw, something thay Bucky was heavily confused about when Jim first said it. 

“Most fighters stand orthodox. They stand with their left foot forward and their right hand tucked up closer to their face with their left hand out. Southpaw is the opposite. You naturally keep your right foot and hand forward and tuck your left hand up by your chin.”

“Is that bad?”

Bucky found himself nervous that he was doing this whole thing wrong from the start. 

“Absolutely not! It’s actually an advantage for you. Does it feel uncomfortable to stand the other way?”

Bucky shifted his feet and arms, facing the bag.

“Kind of.”

“Kind of? Or a lot?”

Bucky rocked himself on the balls of his feet, readying himself to swing towards the bag.”

“A lot.”

“Some fighters can switch easily, and it’s just as comfortable standing both ways. You’re just a predominantly southpaw. That’ll work well in your favor if you ever decide to fight.”

Bucky thought over the idea of actually getting into a ring to fight somebody. He had never been in a fight before. Nobody ever bothered the quiet kid who never said a damn word to anyone. 

“It will?”

“Like I said, most fighters are orthodox. So, when they square off against one another, they’re stances are equal. Southpaws tend to throw that stance off, because now you’re strong hand is mirroring their strong hand, and the protecting forward hand is on the opposite side. And, southpaws are so used to that disadvantage that it doesn’t faze them like it does to orthodox fighters who tend to get used to other orthodox fighters. Huge advantage for you. Seriously.”

Bucky smiled. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t like he was going to step into a ring tomorrow and confuse the fuck out of some stranger in a fight. But, the idea that he maybe could be somewhat good at this, well, yeah, he smiled a little to himself. He was never good at anything. School, sure. His grades were always what they needed to be. But, something that made Bucky unique? He had never had that. That was why he always believed he was never adopted when he was younger. Nobody wanted a useless shadow to look after. 

But, now? Something that made him stand out, to be noticed, Bucky wasn’t going to let that slip away. 

Which is why, years later, Bucky has found himself in the locker room of some dingy venue. He couldn’t help but appreciate the setting for the Almost bare knuckle fight that was about to happen. Minimal. Gritty. Exactly what you’d expect from that kind of fight, too. 

He could hear the crowd, riling themselves up from the combination of testosterone and booze. He wrung out his arms, bouncing from foot to foot, loosening up his muscles one last time. He swung at the open air in front of him, exhaling with each punch. It had taken a long time to regulate his breathing, but once he figured it out, his stamina skyrocketed. 

One of the fight coordinators poked their head around the open doorway. 

“Ready?”

Bucky dropped his arms down to his side, nodding his head once, squinting slightly, his eyes out of focus from not wearing his glasses. He tried contacts. Once. Both ended up on the mat of the ring during the first round. So, he just opts out of wearing anything altogether. He figures he doesn’t need finer details to punch somebody. A blurry chin is still a chin. 

He took in a deep breath after the coordinator left, holding in the oxygen for several seconds and closing his eyes before letting it slowly seep out through his nose. He opened his eyes back up and walked through the doorway. 

———————————————————

The stench of adrenaline, weeks old sweat and blood that had stained the canvas mat and stale beer blended together to form some kind of twisted aroma that made Bucky’s nerves screech and settle at the same time. This was his comfort zone. 

He stepped between the ropes, ducking underneath the top and middle. He chewed on the mouthguard hanging sideways out of his mouth. As much as he enjoyed the gritty brutality of these fights, he was kind of fond of his teeth and wanted them to remain inside of his skull. 

He bounced up and down on his feet, keeping his heart rate elevated while he watched his opponent climb into the ring opposite him. His opponent, that Bucky couldn’t remember what his name was, stared Bucky down. Bucky never understood the point of that. Why try and give your most intimidating glare, as though the two of you weren’t already going to be fighting? No need to be dramatic about it...

The referee stood between the two of them, quickly going through the rules Bucky knew verbatim, at this point. The bell rung and they lunged at one another. 

Bucky knew his advantages and disadvantages. He knew his left hook had far too much power behind it. He knew that he couldn’t always dodge out of an uppercut. By the third round, Bucky had started to feel the pull in his lungs and the sting in his knuckles. Two of them had started to bleed through the wraps, along with a small opening under his left eye, after being unsuccessful in avoiding a fast right hook from his opponent. He was only slightly pissed that he’d have a black eye and a cut above his cheek for work after the weekend. Figures, he’d get his face bruised up for the first day of the new semester...

The third round was nearing the end and Bucky knew he was still at the advantage of his opponent, noticing the way fatigue was starting to settle in. Bucky actually always felt bad for the guys he fought when this happened. He knew he shouldn’t, and that this was what they signed up for. But, Bucky knew his strength, and knew he could end this quickly enough. He knew he could have ended this in the first round. He could have ended this even before the black eye and cut on his face. But, he let it continue, holding back just a bit. Sometimes, he liked the dull aches he would feel the next day after a few rounds in the ring. There was something, not appealing, but pretty damn close to it, about letting some guy swing at you and knowing you could still walk away a winner. 

Bucky knew that didn’t make sense, but he wasn’t going to try and argue with it.

His opponent swung, right arm outstretched as far as possible, and Bucky ducked to the left, feeling the wind from the attempted blow brush past his ear and sweat soaked skin. He cocked back his left arm, elbow bent by his side and he twisted his hips towards the other fighter. The momentum from his hips brought his left arm across his body as his lifted it upright, colliding his knuckles along the jawline of his opponent. Bucky could feel the grind of his knuckle bones against the bone in the other man’s jaw. He could see the flicker of unconsciousness spark and then consume the other fighter’s eyes as he fell to the ground in a heap of limbs and sweat. 

The bell ringing to signal the fight was over. Another win for Bucky by knockout. 

———————————————————-

Monday morning came sooner than Bucky wanted. It’s not that Bucky hated his job, no. He actually loved his job. He loved being a professor. He loved teaching, loved knowing he could make a small impact on maybe one or two students. His body just was not as fully healed as he’d like. His ribs ached from several jabs he took Friday night, so writing on the chalkboard behind his desk was a bit more difficult than he anticipated. 

The swelling to his eye was definitely there, hopefully somewhat hidden behind his dark framed glasses, along with scabbing to his knuckles. His colleagues knew about Bucky’s extracurricular activities, as did a large amount of students Bucky had come to know over the years. But, today was the first day of the new semester, and Bucky knew he was going to be asked multiple questions about his face that he really just didn’t feel like discussing. 

He sat at his desk, stacking the pile of syllabuses on his desk, just to have something to do with his hands as his students started to trickle in. As many classes as Bucky has taught in his few years, the first day was usually just as nervewracking for him as it was for his students. Bucky still hadn’t lost that shyness of himself. And, this morning, his class was filled completely. 

Once every seat had been taken, Bucky stood and introduced himself, quickly talking about the course, expectations, papers and tests. He handed out a syllabus to each student and discussed office hours and research guidelines for the final in a few months. Just as he was about to dismiss the class early, because, well, it was the first day, a student a few rows from the front raised their hand.

“Professor Barnes?”

Bucky felt himself get caught off guard before quickly shrugging himself out of it and looking at the student. 

“Yes?”

The student, no more than 19 and perfectly spiked jet black hair and a smug personality slipping through that instantly bothered Bucky, glanced up and down Bucky’s body, almost like he was sizing him up. Bucky had definitely fought at least a dozen guys just like that guy. Those were the fights that never lasted more than one round. Their attitudes bothered Bucky, and he just swung to end the fight so he didn’t have to interact with them anymore. They all went down the same, too. Bucky only slightly felt a little bad for them. Maybe a little less than that...

“Uhm, no offense or nothing, but what’s with the black eye? You get jumped or something?”

Bucky huffed and walked back to his desk. It was always easier when nobody asked questions. It’s really his own fault for letting the fight continue on as long as it had. He should have ended it in the first round like he knew he could have. 

“No. I wasn’t jumped. Any questions pertaining to the course...”

Bucky scanned the group of gawking students, eyes wide and expectant of an interesting answer he wasn’t going to supply them with. His breath caught in his throat when, dead center of the classroom, in the first row, the most beautiful blond man Bucky had ever seen stared back at him. His head was tilted to the side, just slightly, and his eyes were bluer than any clear sky Bucky had ever seen. They weren’t glaring into Bucky like the rest of the students were, they were searching, almost, for something deeper than just the surface bruises and scrapes. Bucky shook his head, breaking eye contact from whoever the hell that beauty of man was to finish addressing the class. 

“...uhm, or uhm...about your finals, you can email me or come by my office. That’s...that’ll be all for today and I’ll see you guys on Wednesday.”

He could hear the groans of a few students from Bucky’s refusal to answer the question, but Bucky ignored it and turned to his desk to pile his papers back into his bag as the students filed out of the room. Bucky watched, from the corner of his eye, as that same blond student looped his backpack over his shoulder and walked out of the classroom. Not before looking back quickly at Bucky and smiling to himself. Bucky couldn’t help but groan out loud into the, now, empty classroom. 

“Well, shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two will be posted in about a week!


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s up next.
> 
> I don’t think any detailed warnings. A small panic attack. Mention of flashbacks, PTSD, TBI and some side effects.
> 
> Oh, and I love Sam. I will fight the entire world for him. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Steve readjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, shrugging his shoulders, flexing his back, mostly out of nerves. Sure, he was in his late 20’s, and college shouldn’t be this intimidating. But, well, this was Steve’s first day of it. Yup. He was one of those late-going college students. That’s probably not what they are called. But, Steve was too nervous to think of a better word.

Why did his first class have to be a Monday morning at 8 am? His rationale when registering for courses was Go Big or Go Home, more or less. It just so happened that, right now, he just wanted to go the fuck home. 

Art History 101. Professor Barnes. FA building on campus (which Steve realized meant Fine Arts. Clever, college people. Clever.). 

He hovered outside the door for a few minutes, waiting for more students to arrive. He didn’t want to be THAT student, arriving way before class was actually supposed to start and having to sit in uncomfortable silence with the, probably, old as fuck professor who wore sweater vests and smelled like mothballs, or cheese. 

A few more students filed into the classroom, and Steve took one last deep breath before following along with them. He had been wrong about the classroom being empty. Shit. More students must have walked in while Steve was mildly panicking in the hallway. There were only a few seats left, all in the front row. Double shit. Steve let out that deep breath and shuffled along to one of the center seats. Go Big or Go Home, right?

Pulling out the voice recorder from his bag, something he was uncomfortable using but understood the benefit, he positioned himself for comfort. He mentally prepared himself to sit in that uncomfortable desk/chair combo for the next 90 minutes. Finally looking up, he almost audibly gasped when he saw the man sitting at the desk.

He was way the fuck off about what college professors looked like. 

This Professor Barnes guy was the entire opposite mental image Steve had had. Professor Barnes was around the same age as Steve. Neatly cut, short brown hair. The perfect shade of tanned, smooth skin. A nice pair of dark gray, almost black, suit pants and white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The matching jacket lay folded across the back of the chair he was sitting in. A thin, silk black tie waving subtly with each movement the man made. Long fingers shuffled through papers on his desk, and Steve noticed bright red marks on his knuckles, just starting to heal, like the man had been punching something all night long. Interesting. And, fuck, the man had thick, black framed glasses resting on his face. When he looked up, Steve almost choked on his own tongue, or his spit or the air, or whatever. Pale blue eyes shone through the glasses, almost staring into Steve’s soul. It was a quick glance, but Steve instantly felt his entire body warm to above comfortable temperatures. He was fucked. The blooming black eye attempting to hide under the glass and the small cut on the man’s cheek resting just under the frames...yup, fucked. 

If this was how every professor in college looked, Steve was either 1) going to ace every class for how well he was going to be paying attention, or 2) he was going to fail...because of how little he was paying attention to the actual material. He was leaning more towards outcome number two. At least he only had two classes this semester. He didn’t think he would have been able to handle more than that. Considering he still hasn’t been able to get a hold on his nightmares, knowing exhaustion would find a way to fuck him over during school.

Steve had been honorably discharged from the army almost a year ago, as a Captain. He spent a couple months of that in a hospital, recovering from the IED blast that killed half of his platoon. He had survived, obviously, with the least amount of injuries. A blow to the head and a bunch of shrapnel later, he was finally sent home with outpatient counseling. 

That was where he met Sam. 

Sam had been pararescue. Lost some people close to him. Decided to pursue psychology and ended up doing therapy sessions at the VA. Both Sam and Steve had hit it off during their first session about six months ago. Two days a week. Sam had let Steve just talk his feelings out for the first month. Then, he slowly started introducing coping mechanisms to help with the constant nightmares Steve finally admitted to having. Once Sam realized there were more underlying concerns Steve was holding back on, he discussed with Steve the probable diagnosis of PTSD.

Another month later, and that probable diagnosis became an actual diagnosis and Steve had a new prescription for medication to help with the more intense nights. Sam attempted to get Steve to take something to help calm his nerves on a daily basis, but after several conversations, he realized Steve would not budge on the idea. Steve absolutely did not want to take medication every single day for the rest of his life, something his stubbornness wouldn’t let go of. So, he compromised. He had a bottle of medication he could take when everything became too much. Sam just didn’t need to know that it stayed buried in the furthest corner of his closet. 

Sam had asked Steve what his plans were now that he was home, for good. Steve, being ever the most interesting person, came to the conclusion that he had absolutely no hobbies. No interests.

“You need an outlet, man.”

Steve tried to think it over, things he used to enjoy. He used to enjoy reading, but sometimes, reading hurt his eyes and, in turn, his head. So, that option was out. He had always loved art, drawing, painting...that was what he probably would have pursued if he hadn’t joined the army. When Sam found that bit of information out, he dragged Steve along to an empty room on the other side of the VA, one that was usually used for activities like what Sam had planned. 

In the middle of the room, Sam had set up a painting sheet, an easel and a large canvas resting against the wood of the easel. Paints and brushes were set up on the ground, waiting to be used. 

“What is this?”

Sam turned and smiled softly at Steve.

“Time to find you a hobby, again. You said you loved this once. I’m hoping you can find that feeling again.”

Sam left Steve alone, not wanting to hover over Steve while he painted. Steve greatly appreciated that. Nobody ever really saw his art before. He didn’t really want them to start seeing it now. 

He stepped forward, leaning down to pick up one of the brushes, instantly missing the way brushes felt between his fingers. Thousands of emotions and memories flooded back to him. He was just barely able to keep the tears from spilling over. 

He swiped the bristles through the glob of paint he squirted out from the tube, holding it up to the canvas and ready to move it across the blankness in front of him. 

Except, his hand wouldn’t stop shaking. 

That was weird. His hand had never done that before. He tried again. Same tremor. Again. Another. Again. Another.

Frustration started brewing beneath his skin. He gripped the brush harder and jammed it against the canvas. He moved the brush upwards and nearly screamed when he looked back at his one line and noticed how wobbly it looked. He thought maybe it was the brush, so he picked up another one, swiping it through a different color and pushing against the canvas to paint another line. It was a smaller brush, so the wobbles in the line were even more noticeable than the other one.

Nine brushes, six colors and an hour had passed by before Sam returned to see how Steve was doing. What he saw was not what he was expecting. 

Steve was sitting on the ground, his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them with his forehead resting in the space between each knee, rocking back and forth. It took Sam a few moments to figure out where that sound was coming from. It was Steve. He was sobbing. 

Rushing over to Steve’s side, careful as to not crowd or touch him, Sam kneeled down a few feet from where Steve sat.

“Steve?”

The sound of sniffling was muffled against the material of Steve’s jeans as he slowly worked on his breathing, attempting some sort of regulation. Sam, bless his beautiful, wonderful heart, waited patiently until Steve was ready to respond.

“I...I couldn’t do it.”

Sam looked between Steve, the messy pile of paints and brushes and the half painted on canvas, slowy piecing together the situation.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Steve slowly lifted his head up from his knees, eyes red and puffy, cheeks tear soaked and blotchy. 

“I...I can’t paint. I can’t...I can’t even hold the fucking brush without my fucking hand shaking.”

A fresh wave of tears crested from Steve’s eyes, dripping down off of his chin. Hopelessness seeped out through his skin, an absolute look of defeat sketching across the features of his face. Sam was, almost, just as heartbroken.

“Residual effects from your head injury?”

Steve sniffled, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand, nodding slightly.

“They told me it could happen. I just didn’t think...”

He waves his hand at the canvas, dropping it back down to his lap with too much heaviness in his bones. 

Sam, without much else to comfort Steve while he was sitting on the floor with his reminder of his new setback staring right at him, stood up and reached out for Steve to help him to his own feet. 

Two weeks later, at Steve’s next appointment, Sam presented the idea to Steve about taking a college course, or two. He suggested to avoid any additional classes, stating that he felt two classes was enough to ease back into the idea of school. He didn’t want Steve to feel too overwhelmed by the workload, paying special attention to his head injury and any other possible residual effects.

————————————————————

Another few weeks later had Steve registered and attending his first class of two classes. Art History 101 and Basic Math. He needed to start on pre-reqs and, well, math couldn’t have changed that much since he graduated however long ago it was now. It had taken less than a day to decide what he wanted to work towards as his major. All the other options didn’t strike any sort of emotion in him like the idea of being surrounded by art for the rest of his life had. He figured if he couldn’t DO art anymore, he could TALK about art, and it was almost as nice.

“What do you think about it so far?”

Sam had suggested they go for a walk instead of just sitting in his office, grabbing a coffee at a shop a few block’s away, trying to soak up the last warm days of the year left. Sam always had a non-traditional approach to the way he saw therapy. It was one of the reasons why Steve stayed with it as long as he had. Sam was laid back in a way that helped ease Steve’s doubts about the need for his continuing therapy sessions. Words could never be enough to thank Sam for the help he has given Steve in just such a short amount of time. He never expected himself to be where he was, now, a year later. And, it was all because of Sam.

“I’m definitely the oldest in my classes.”

Sam laughed into his coffee. 

“That’s not always the worst thing.”

Steve paused mid-sip to side eye Sam.

“By almost ten years, Sam.” 

That brought out another chuckle from Sam. They talked more about his classes and what the expectations of the semester were. He almost mentioned to Sam about the unfairly attractive Art History professor he had, but thought maybe that could be for another session. Steve still needed to wrap his head around that one. Sam asked Steve how he felt about the classes, and if he understood to discuss with his professors if, for any reason, he is having a difficult time processing certain things. Steve scoffed a little at that, truly letting his stubbornness shine through. Sam insisted that Steve understand, and refused to let the subject drop until Steve agreed to acknowledging the use of accommodations if he needed them. Steve even reassured Sam that he was using the tape recorder in class instead of writing down notes, to help avoid any potential breakdowns from the tremor in his hand. It irritated Steve that it took this long to come across this tremor in the first place, but Steve figured he wasn’t doing all that much of fine motor skills, aside from eating and brushing his teeth, since somehow managing to fool the hospitals last year he was well enough to go home.

Clearly, that plan backfired.

“It’s just to look out for yourself, Steve. It’s not coddling or admitting you’re weak if you need that extra bit of help. You’re still recovering.”

Steve sighed and settled into the chair opposite of Sam’s once they got back to his office. They still had another twenty minutes left of their session. 

“I know. And, I do appreciate it. It’s just...still hard, sometimes. Realizing I’m not the same person I was before all of this. How easily I get frustrated because I can’t do something the way I used to, and sometimes not even being able to get the words out. It’s...it’s like I’m trapped up here.”

Sam tipped his cup all the way back, slurping the last drop of his coffee out before dropping the empty cup into the trashcan beside his desk behind him. He looked over Steve carefully before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I might have a suggestion for you.”

Steve took a long sip of his coffee, eyeing Sam in return. He could see the small smirk on Sam’s face, and he knew whatever Sam was about to suggest, Steve was going to have to at least try it once. He felt that he owed that to Sam. Maybe, a little to himself, but mostly to Sam. Steve remained silent, letting Sam finally reveal his newest plan towards Steve’s overall recovery.

“How do you feel about boxing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three will be posted in about a week.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve meets the man whose going to train him how to box. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

Steve’s history of fighting included once, when he was in middle school and another boy was mean to a frog he had found and Steve punched him in the nose and got sent to the principal’s office, and once when he was in high school and one of the jock kids tried to shove one of the AV kids into his own locker. That one got him suspended for a few days. Apparently, breaking somebody’s nose is a lot more serious when you’re almost an adult. 

Steve still stands by his decision. To both.

Now, technically, Steve had done so much more fighting in the last few years, and had done worse than just breaking somebody’s nose. The things he had done were what still gave him nightmares and flashbacks so intense, he loses hours at a time. 

But, those two things were separate in his mind. School fights and fighting in a war. Whatever moral compass he had was still underneath it all, he told himself. Just the situations, overall, were different. 

Sam’s suggestion to boxing wasn’t entirely a shock. It just wasn’t what Steve was expecting. It made sense, though, once Sam broke it down for Steve. The ‘why’ to his suggestion.

“You said it yourself, you have this energy inside of you that you can’t get out. And you’re frustrated. You said words are difficult, sometimes, and writing is almost as tough. You need some way to get that energy out of you.”

Sam held up his hand, already expecting Steve’s argument.

“You running ten miles every morning is not the same.”

Steve closed his mouth, silencing his, almost, identical response. He enjoyed running. It did clear his head, to an extent. He would run until his lungs could barely expand, and his legs felt as if the muscles were melting and turning to jello inside of his skin. But, Sam was right. There was still all this pent up energy and emotion, sparking underneath his skin with no way to release it. No, not even jerking off once a night, or again in the shower, or again while he was sitting in front of the TV, were enough to get that sting out of his muscles. Whatever chaos was inside of him just could not be satisfied.

He was hesitant, at first, at the idea of punching things. Ironic, given his history, yes. But, how that relieved that unnameable energy inside of him, he wasn’t sure. 

“Have you ever slammed a door when you were upset? Or, punched a pillow because you were mad and knew you couldn’t scream about it?”

Steve thought on that for a moment. He was never really a ‘yelling’ type. The two fights he had been in, he just walked up and swung. No hesitation. No conversation. Just action. The few times he had had verbal arguments, mostly with his mother, when she was still alive, were during his teenage years and hormones got the best of him. Even then, they ended with a hug, a kiss to his cheek and an exchange of “I love you’s” and that was the end of it. So, to answer Sam’s question...

“No, not really.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at Steve. 

“Well, okay. I still think something physical where you can direct your frustrations to a specific location might benefit you. Until you can work through the mazes inside of your head.” 

Steve knew Sam was trying. He knew after the failed attempt at re-introducing art back into his life, that Sam meant well. Of course, he knew that previously, but the heartfelt attempt meant so much to Steve, and he could see the look of devestation in Sam’s eyes when it didn’t work out. 

Hell, he trusted him enough to jump into the idea of college. Whatever connection Steve and Sam had made, he knew he could trust him. 

“I don’t...I don’t think I could fight, though.”

Sam sat back, chuckling softly to himself.

“I never said you had to fight. Just work out. Using boxing techniques. I just want you to punch a bag really hard.” 

Oh. Steve could do that. 

“Okay. Where did you have in mind?”

Sam gave Steve the address to the gym. He assured Steve that the man who owned the gym, Jim (yes, he laughed along with Steve about the irony), was an old friend to the VA, having had served years ago. Jim had told Sam to send anyone he felt needed the release to come by his gym and he’d take care of them. Sam had sent a few men and women there over the years. Some still worked out there. He mentioned one guy who was a pretty good amateur boxer, undefeated, though he wasn’t a vet. Actually, Sam wasn’t really sure on anything about the guy. According to Jim, the guy barely spoke more than a few words, and never wrote down his occupation on the paperwork years ago when he had first joined the gym. 

“He’s one of those quiet guys. Doesn’t really say much. Jim vouches for him. Says he’s a great guy. Has one hell of a left hook. Refuses to go pro, though.” 

Steve felt more at ease with the idea of going to this gym Sam recommended, knowing quite a few other vets had gone and seemed to enjoy it. But, knowing the general public still went there, caused something deep down inside of him to remain slightly on edge. A subtle fear that he might have a breakdown in front of people that wouldn’t...couldn’t...understand sent an irritating shiver across his skin.

So, that’s how Steve found himself standing outside of a rundown gym a few blocks from his home, Brooklyn Boxing, almost a month after Sam first had suggested it. He paced for a few minutes outside the door, warring against the last few thoughts of hesitation before inhaling deeply and pulling open the rusty metal door. 

Just inside, the rush of combined scents hit him in full force. Grunts and words of encouragement echoed up into the rafters. Steve immediately felt an excited sense of calm wash over him. Yes, this was a place where people trained to fight and swing. But, there was an unmistakeable feeling of comradery, a familiarity. It was something Steve didn’t know he was missing from his army days until it was there, right in front of him, ready to welcome him in with open arms. 

“You must be Steve.”

An older man walked up to Steve, hand outstretched, smile as warm as one could be. Steve extended his own hand, firmly shaking the other man’s while nodding his head in response. Steve assumed Sam had called Jim up weeks ago, telling him what Steve had looked like. Or, else, this Jim guy was just _that_ good at knowing all the people who attended his gym. Or, maybe Steve had that Just Back From A War And Didn’t Come Home Okay kind of look to him. 

“I’m Jim. Sam said you’d be by.”

Steve returned his hand to his side, adjusting his weight on his feet, feeling a small sting of uncertainty suddenly.

“I, uh, yeah. He thought this might, uhm, help me out. Sorry it uhm, that it took me a while to come in. School’s been, uhm...”

He wasn’t using that as a bullshit excuse for why he hadn’t shown up until now. Steve was still trying to figure out exactly how he fit into the world as a college student. The routine and schedule was nice, giving Steve a set time and place for his days. The studying and various papers he was assigned from his classes gave his mind something to focus on while he was at home. It was a nice break from the usual chaos in his head. The extremely attractive art history professor, also, gave his mind some place nice to retreat into. 

The subtle glances each of them had clearly been giving to one another only intensified as the weeks had gone by, sometimes lasting more than just a second or two. Steve was pretty sure he was making more of the eye contact than what was actually there, but...whatever. He figured the professor was definitely straight or wouldn’t be interested in someone like Steve, anyways, even if he weren’t straight. Steve was pretty sure a professor wasn’t allowed to date a student, anyways. Or, not while they were a student of theirs. Oh well. Steve could let his imagination have fun for him. And, yeah, it definitely did. 

It was almost a nightly routine. Finish up studying. Make a small meal. Get himself ready for bed. Tuck himself into the sheets. Then, grabbing hold of himself, he would imagine all the ways Professor Barnes would pull him apart, piece by piece. He would always come with a moan of his professor’s name, but always feeling slightly unsatisfied. Whatever this crush was, Steve figured it would go away, eventually. Or, he just needed to get laid. One of the two...

Jim waved a hand in front of them, brushing off Steve’s excuse for waiting a month to come by, shaking Steve out of his head.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I can see you thinking more about this than you probably should be. Just take today, hit a bag a few times, see how you like it. Then, we can go from there, okay?”

Steve immediately released a gush of air, letting his chest loosen from the welling anxiety. It was already easier having another soul that understood the things going on inside of Steve’s head without needing him to get them out. He definitely liked this Jim guy. Just another thing to thank Sam for. 

——————————————————-

Jim took Steve over to a corner of the gym, showing where Steve could drop a bag and a jacket when he’d need to, if he decided to continue coming to the gym. He sat Steve down on one of the benches and had Steve reach a hand out at a time, so he could teach Steve the proper way to wrap his hands. 

“You’re skin is gonna get a little bruised and ripped up, even with the tape. But, this will help protect your knuckles a little bit from the friction against the bag. It’ll, also, help keep your fist in the proper placement when hitting. We wanna try to avoid any fractures.”

Steve gulped slightly as he switches hands for Jim to wrap.

“Is...does that...happen a lot?”

Jim chuckled, keeping his focus on the fabric in his hands as he wove it in and out of Steve’s fingers.

“There’s a reason why they refer to it as a ‘boxer’s fracture’. Nothing you can really do for it. And, sometimes, just hitting something the right way, well, I guess wrong way is more like it...it just happens.”

Jim finished the second wrap and secured it into place. He held up both of his closed fists to eye level.

“See the flat knuckles...those are them. Guess I’ve gotten a few over the years.”

He chuckled again, standing up and motioning for Steve to follow. 

Steve stood close by, listening to Jim explain where everything in the gym was located and what kind of atmosphere he should be expecting. He told him that most of the people that came to his gym were there, mostly, for the exercise and release. He told him that a few boxers that had gone on to actually fight and compete had come through in all the years he had had the gym. Pictures of those boxers holding trophies and during fights were hung up on the walls throughout the gym. 

“Plenty of my boxers have gotten into the ring. Some of ‘em were pretty good, too. Won a few. Lost a lot. Had fun doing it, though. That was what I always made sure they kept, the having fun part. It wasn’t worth it to me for them to win all the time and be miserable, you know?”

Steve nodded along, darting his eyes from picture to picture, getting more and more of an image of who Jim really was as a person. Everything Steve was learning about him just made him like the guy more. Jim was genuine. And, he loved what he did. It showed entirely in the way he spoke of the sport, and the way he spoke of the people who had walked in his gym doors. Sam had told Steve that Jim had created this space for people to duck into when they needed a way out of themselves, and he just wanted everyone to find their own peace. If he was able to do that, give somebody a small moment of quiet, then he had lived his purpose on this Earth. Thankfully, he had been doing just that, for the last 30 years. 

“Of course, until a couple years ago and this guy comes walking in, looking a little bit like you did.” 

He laughed and motioned for Steve to continue walking. 

“He came in, looking to just beat on some bags, and ended up being one hell of a boxer. Finally convinced the guy to do a couple fights and, now, all these years later, he’s never lost a fight. Here, let me introduce you to him. He’s actually the one I want to show you a couple combos to get into the swing of things, see how you like it.”

Steve felt that anxiety inside of him start to bubble back up. He had felt at ease with Jim, but now knowing somebody else would have to show him how to swing a few punches and possibly find out just how messy his head is, it put Steve on edge a bit. 

“You’re not gonna show me how to...?”

Jim chuckled, raising up his hands again, wiggling his fingers stiffly.

“Nope. Can’t. Arthritis from all my years of punching my own demons away. Not as forgiving the older you get. That’s why you need to make sure you wrap those hands of yours up good each time, you hear me?”

Steve nodded as they stopped behind a man who was swinging at one of the bags furthest from the door. His shirt had been discarded and looped through the chains at the top of the bag. Sweat glistened across the man’s back and over his arms. Each and every muscle Steve could ever imagine rippled, literally fucking rippled, with each movement the man made. The combination punches the man was working through twisted his body in certain ways that Steve could see the absolutely unfair definition of his abdomen. And, the pure power behind each and every punch...Steve felt almost sorry for the punching bag. He was almost sure that, with each punch, the bag would bust wide open and whatever was inside would come spilling out. If Steve felt the same way about his own body, then he’d never say. But, holy shit. 

He had to force himself to keep his mouth from gaping open as he watched the man work through his personal technique. Aside from the sheer fact that the man radiated every single detail from Steve’s own wet dreams, there was a calming ferocity that had Steve in awe. There was a rhythm the man had that Steve knew was all his own. It was like a beautiful dance and only he could hear the music. The way the man’s hips dipped and twirled, his body lean and moving with a sense of fluidity. The way his pure power melt into his own finesse was something Steve had never seen, such power with such control. It was mesmerizing. 

He had completely forgotten Jim was standing beside him until he spoke again, ripping Steve from his perverted little day dream. 

“Hey, Buck, I got someone I’d like ya to meet.”

The man, apparently named Buck, because that was one hell of a name, stopped midswing and reached out to still the bag in front of him. He slowly turned, a half smile on his lips when he looked at Jim, only to have it slide right off when his eyes met Steve’s.

“This is Steve Rogers, the guy I was telling you about. Was hoping you’d still be interested in helping show Steve a few things, to see how he likes this whole boxing thing.”

Steve held Bucky’s gaze, unwilling to drop it. He was unsure if he recognized him or not, seeing as they had only ever seen one another in class and, aside from the ‘maybe mutual but probably not mutual eye’ contact, they hadn’t said anything to one another. Steve was, mostly, hoping his professor wouldn’t recognize him. A whole new level of awkwardness that Steve was not equipped to handle at the moment, with the guy all sweaty and half dressed in front of him. But, from the wide eyed look on Professor Barnes...no, Bucky’s...face, he absolutely recognized him. Fuck.

Bucky reached out a wrapped and sweaty hand. 

“Hi Steve. It...it’s nice to meet you.”

Steve absolutely did not dwell on the way Bucky said his name in that breathless tone. Nope. Not at all. 

He extended his hand and shook back, awkward with both of their wrapped hands, but shook it with a fierce determination he had no idea where it had even come from.

“H...hey, uh..Bucky. Uhm, yeah, it’s nice to meet you, uhm, too.”

Well, class is definitely going to be interesting now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be out next week...maybe? Hopefully?


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...sorry it took me longer to post this one.
> 
> I think I might have made up for it?
> 
> Enjoy!

Bucky anxiously flipped through the textbook on his desk. His eyes flicked back and forth across the pages, tracking the letters and pictures on them. Except, well, he hadn’t actually read a fucking word in the last thirty-five minutes. Nope. Because, his mind couldn’t move past the sight of one Steven Rogers...in work out clothes...that were onboxiously too tight for the massive collection of muscles he had apparently been hoarding under all those other kinds of clothes. The academic-like part of Bucky’s brain wanted to teach Steve a lesson about manipulation or something, and ask Steve to just walk around all day without a shirt on, for, you know...extra credit or something? Okay. Maybe that was a stretch. Ugh, Steve stretching...

Commotion at the door brought Bucky back from wherever his mind was traveling to. Students had started to trickle in. Oh, right. Class. His first class was starting in ten minutes. He had shown up early, hoping to clear his mind, and, well, that obviously hadn’t worked. 

He had been good, these last few weeks. Quick glances to Steve throughout his lectures, most missed, some absolutely not. But, otherwise, Bucky had been pretty fucking proud of himself for managing to avoid anything that could cause his wanting mind to lose all rational thinking and practically lunge at Steve and take him right then and there, in front of all of his students. It took damn near all of his willpower, and probably some form of borrowed prayers, to not take Steve into the empty locker rooms of the gym and let Steve have his way with him. Not that he actually knows if Steve is even interested in men. And, if he is, that he would be interested in somebody like Bucky. 

Just as Bucky was starting to turn down that darkened alley of his mind, in walks the embodiment of sunshine himself. Steve stepped through the doorway, steps faltering for just a moment as their eyes met. It was only for a brief moment, a smirk subtley ghosting his lips, as he walked across the room to take his seat in front of Bucky. In the last few weeks since the semester had started, Bucky had never put much thought into Steve sitting smack dab in front of him during class. Sure, he absolutely noticed he was within reach most of the time. But, today...today he had come to realize just how unfair it was. 

If Bucky stepped just a few feet past his desk, he could twist his fingers through those blonde locks and crash his lips against Steve’s, run his other hand all along all those defined ridges and dips and planes of the solid muscle he know knew resided underneath Steve’s clothes. He could tear Steve apart, one touch at a time, pulling out moan after breathless moan...

Whoa. 

Bucky clamped his jaw shut. He had been staring. Blatantly staring. His eyes flicked around the classroom, scanning each student’s face to see if any of them had caught Bucky practically eye-fucking Steve in front of everyone. A sigh of relief escaped Bucky as it seemed nobody had even noticed. 

Except for one person.

Bucky’s gaze landed back on Steve. He sat in his desk, one arm resting across the surface, his fingers playing with the edge of his notebook. The other arm, bent up, so his hand could hold his fingers up to his lips. He let his pinky finger trace across his bottom lip, mouth slightly parted. Deep blue eyes darkening as he held contact with Bucky’s. Bucky gulped. Yes. A literal gulp. 

Bucky broke eye contact, clearing his throat and standing. He greeted the mostly filled classroom, ignoring the groans from a select few as he asked everyone to clear their desks for the surprise quiz he was giving them today. He appeased them, though, by informing them that once they were finished with the quiz, they could leave. One person clapped, which was awkward. But, Bucky would take it. Small victories, you know?

After Bucky had passed out the quizzes, he sat back down at his desk. He started grading through some other papers while his students quieted and started their exams. After about 15 minutes had passed by, Bucky looked up to scan the classroom, studying his student’s faces to see if anybody was struggling. Bucky wasn’t an overly strict or difficult professor, genuinely wanting his students to pass. 

But, once he dragged his eyes back to the front of the room, all compassion for the rest of the student’s well-being was swept right out the fucking window. 

Steve was staring at Bucky, something dancing behind his eyes that Bucky couldn’t quite place. Steve smirked, lifting the side of his mouth as he moved his fingers back up and against his mouth, now pressing his thumb harder against his lips, tongue flicking out quickly to lick across the pad of his thumb. He slid down lower in his chair, legs opening wide underneath the desk. He slid his thumb into his mouth, closing his lips the digit before slowly sliding it back out. He tilted his head down a little lower, letting his long eyelashes partially cover his eyes, as he slid his thumb back inside of his mouth. 

Bucky was helpless. Stuck. Frozen in his seat. The entire classroom disappeared. It was just him and Steve in that moment. Blood roared between his ears before racing throughout his veins and pooling to his crotch. His cock pressing painfully against the zipper of his pants, begging to be freed and shoved into those god damn sinful lips of Steve’s. His breath started to pick up. Small, silent puffs of air escaping his lips as he watched Steve’s eyes flutter close. Steve slid his thumb almost all the way out of his lips, but pushing back in before it could slip out of its pretty pink confines. 

Bucky’s eyes traveled down, watching as Steve’s shadowed hips rocked forwards and backwards. Bucky swallowed the groan rising in his throat as he watched Steve grind against nothing. He brought a hand down off of his desk’s surface and pressed it against the hardest erection he has ever had. His eyes closed on their own, a wave of relief and pleasure mixing beneath his hand as he pressed harder. He opened his eyes to find Steve staring at him with eyes wider than they had been, lips parted and his thumb limply resting against his bottom lip. Bucky watched as Steve’s eyes darkened in front of him, pupils dilating to almost drown out the deep blue. 

A cough from a student in the far right corner of the classroom pulled Bucky out of that unbelievable moment between the two of them. It was enough to remind Bucky that there were still students in his classroom, and that Steve was one of them. Bucky shook his head, lifting his hand up away from his crotch. He refused to look over at Steve, instead lowering his head back down to continue grading the pile of papers on his desk.

Another ten minutes had passed by when students started rising from their seats to drop their quizzes onto the desk and leaving the classroom for the day. Bucky smiled and thanked each of them, arranging them into another pile he would grade later that day. Bucky got lost in the paper he was reading when the last of his students dropped their quiz onto his desk, wishing him to have a good day, and slipping out of the classroom, door closing behind him. 

A throat clearing brought Bucky’s attention up from his desk. 

That wasn’t his last student.

Steve sat in his seat, legs remaining seductively spread apart and thumb pressing into those lips again. Only, his eyes were focused down on the quiz in front of him, pencil scratching answers along the provided empty spaces. Bucky watched again, knowing he could possibly get another few extended glances over Steve’s body while Steve wouldn’t notice.

———————————————————

Steve had noticed. Sure, he was finishing answering his last few questions, but could feel the weight of eyes roaming over him. He didn’t need to look up to know Bucky was staring at him again. Well, he could still play with his professor, at least until he was done with his quiz. Steve knew he could keep Bucky here all day long if he wanted to. Sam had finally convinced Steve to submit paperwork to the college in regards to testing accommodations, allowing Steve unlimited time to finish tests and quizzes, especially if they involved handwritten answers. It had bothered Steve to admit that he needed that help, but in this moment, Steve could not have been more thrilled about his uninterrupted and extended length of time he got to spend with just his professor. 

Especially when he knew exsctly what he was doing to him. Steve hadn’t come in to class this morning with this expectation. But, after spending hours with Bucky at the gym the other night, listening to Bucky groan out and gasp with all the exertion, sweat dripping off of him, Steve couldn’t help himself the first moment he saw his professor sitting there. The fact that he could be left alone with Bucky in an empty classroom, well, fuck, Steve was _not_ going to let that opportunity pass without having at least a little fun...

He readjusted his weight on the hard plastic chair, letting his knees fall further apart. He had been trying to hide his half hard cock all class long, but now, now that he was alone with the damn cause of his current situation, he didn’t bother to hide it anymore. He thrusted his hips against the hard plastic surface of the chair, letting the stretched fabric of his jeans rub slightly over his cock. A soft groan escaped his lips. His answers were starting to become more difficult to bullshit his way through as more blood rushed to his crotch. His handwriting becoming almost ineligible as his concentration waivered, no longer able to control the tremor in his hand, but finding himself not even caring anymore. 

He moved the hand that was fingering along his mouth, letting it drop down to his lap and pressing the heel of his hand into his crotch. He heard the gasp from his professor. Steve didn’t lift his head, keeping his eyes focused on the paper and slowly writing out each letter in his answers. He thrusted his hips again, pushing his, now, rock hard cock against his hand, groaning again. Even though it barely vibrated in his throat, the classroom was silent enough that the sound echoed in the space between him and his professor. 

Steve could hear fabric shifting, letting his imagination play with what his professor must be doing just feet away from him. Steve closed his eyes for a moment, letting his fingers wrap around the shaft of his cock, tracing it tightly within the confines of his jeans, wanting nothing more than to step across the distance between the two desks and slam himself against Bucky. His hips started gently rocking back and forth of their own volition, apparently he was no longer in control of his own body.

———————————————————-

Bucky adjusted his cock inside the waist of his jeans, trying to relieve the new pressure building against his body. He tried to look away from Steve, tried to focus on the papers in front of him. He thought he might have had a chance, until he heard the very obvious sound of a groan from the man across from him. He lifted his eyes, widening when he saw what Steve was very obviously displaying underneath the desk. When Steve brought his hand down to his own lap and began palming at the impressive bulge between his legs, Bucky couldn’t help the gasp that escaped him. 

His hand instantly reached down to his own lap, pressing against his own cock, rubbing up and down the material of his pants. Sparks of pleasure lit their way through his nerves, hips thrusting forward so he could grind himself against his hand. When he saw Steve begin to rock against himself in a steady rhythm, Bucky couldn’t help himself. He popped the button of his jeans, thankful beyond nothing he could think of at that moment for not wearing a belt today, he slid the zipper of his pants down. He reached past the waistband of his boxer briefs, wrapping his fingers around himself and stroking up and down in tight, slow pulls. 

He watched as Steve’s fingers wrapped around his cock, other hand that was writing pausing, as he started to jerk himself off over his pants. Bucky groaned, louder than he had, and not giving a single fucking care in the world at that moment. He sat back in his chair, sliding more of his jeans down his waist to get more access to himself. He slid the elastic of his boxer briefs waistband down further, so he could free his entire erection. He watched as Steve’s fingers brought the pencil back down to the paper in shaky twitches. 

“If you don’t finish answering those questions soon, there’s gonna be something else you’ll have to finish on your own.”

Bucky was proud of himself, for not stuttering his way through that. Where the fuck had that confidence come from? He could probably tell you every single person he had more than a three sentence conversation with these past few years. He didn’t even want to mention the awkward one night stands he had had. Quick glances shared over paid for shots, sloppy kisses and even sloppier sex was really all Bucky had experienced in his lifetime. Nobody really put in much effort to somebody who couldn’t manage to spit out an entire sentence without having to restart half of the words. They all just liked him better with a cock shoved between his lips or his own shoved in their ass as they used him for their own release and left Bucky usually unsatisfied and having to jerk himself off to come. 

So, this...jerking himself off in his own classroom, within reach of one of his students, while that same student rubbed themselves was the most insane sexual experience Bucky had ever had. And, he wasn’t going to last long.

Not when Steve stopped his movements over his jeans, and, without lifting his head, gave Bucky a response he was absolutely not expecting.

“And if I asked you to bend me over your desk, would you give me extra credit, Professor?”

Bucky squeezed his cock tight, fighting off the orgasm that almost erupted out of him. His eyes slammed close as his mind supplied a quick image of Steve bent along the edge of his desk, papers strewn about, Steve’s jeans and underwear pooled down at his ankles, and ass up in the air. Bucky threw his head back, groaning loudly. He could hear movement before him. Lowering his head back down, he opened his eyes to find Steve standing inches in front of him, paper hovering and shaking slightly from a subtle tremor Bucky had been noticing over the past few weeks. 

But, that wasn’t what had Bucky’s attention at the moment. No. It was the black eyed gaze staring down at Bucky’s lap and the tented front of Steve’s jeans just within reach. Steve dropped the paper onto the top of the desk and walked around it, stopping beside the arm of Bucky’s chair. Bucky pushed himself back, turning to face Steve, fingers still wrapped tightly around his cock. Steve stepped forward, lifting one leg to fit into the space between Bucky’s outer thigh and the arm of his chair. He reached forward and pulled Bucky’s hand away from his cock, pushing it to Bucky’s side. He brought his arms up, resting his forearms on each of Bucky’s shoulders as he lifted his other leg up and resting his knee of the outside of Bucky’s other thigh. 

With impressive endurance, Steve slowly, so fucking slowly, lowered himself onto Bucky’s lap. He settled his thighs to rest against the top of Bucky’s. They sat there, eyes staring into one another, for moments that seemed to extend to forever. Steve slid fingers along Bucky’s jawline, tracing up his healing split and bruised cheek from the first time Steve had laid eyes on Bucky, knowing now the reasoning behind the unexpected injuries of his Art History Professor those few weeks ago. He slid his fingers up further, reaching Bucky’s glasses, gently removing them and placing them on the desk beside him. He reached his hand back to Bucky’s face, tracing his thumb along the fading bruise around Bucky’s eye, watching as Bucky’s chest heaved slightly and a soft hiss left his mouth as Steve focused on the way Bucky’s skin was still blending between tanned and yellowing skin. Steve brough his fingers down the days old stubble of Bucky’s cheek, reaching the plump pink bottom lip of the brunette, tracing curiously, licking his own in response. He slowly bent his head down, closing the space and pressing his lips softly to Bucky’s. 

Bucky’s brain shorted out. All he could think of and know in that moment was the feel of Steve’s lips pressing against his own. Steve pulled back quickly, licking his lips, adjusting his weight on Bucky’s lap, before lowering his head again and pushing back against Bucky’s mouth with more pressure and want. Bucky lifted his hands to wrap his fingers around Steve’s waist, angling his head to kiss Steve deeper. When Bucky felt Steve’s tongue slide along the seam of his lips, he parted them and allowed Steve to consume him some more. Bucky groaned deep in his throat, savoring the way Steve tasted on his tongue. He let Steve take the lead, knowing he himself would probably fuck everything up if he was left in charge. 

Steve carded his fingers through Bucky’s hair, gripping at the short strands on top of his head, moving Bucky’s head to accommodate his tongue fucking into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky gripped Steve’s hips tighter, pulling him closer against him, pressing Steve’s chest against his own. He gasped when Steve shifted even closer, and Bucky could feel Steve’s hard cock against his stomach. The rough denim of Steve’s jeans scratching across Bucky’s exposed cock caused another string of moans to bubble inside Bucky’s throat. 

“Fu...fuuuccckkkkk....” 

Bucky couldn’t help the word from skittering out of his teeth when Steve abandoned Bucky’s mouth and led his lips on a wandering path along Bucky’s jaw and his teeth clamped down onto Bucky’s earlobe. Bucky pulled on Steve’s hips, grinding Steve on his lap. Steve took the hint and started a steady rhythm, readjusting to push his cock more against Bucky’s, moaning in response.

Bucky reached over, releasing the button on Steve’s jeans and somehow managing to slide the zipper down Steve’s thrusting lower half. He reached into the waistband of Steve’s boxer briefs with a greedy hand, nearly exploding at the first feel of soft, heated skin of Steve’s cock. 

With his lips still attacking the sensitive spots near Bucky’s ear, Steve moaned at the feel of Bucky’s hand on his dick.

“Ugh...fuck, Bucky...yeah...yes, that feels...uhhh...”

Bucky stroked Steve, mind completely consumed by the sound of Steve’s moans in his ear, body thrusting in his lap, grinding down against him. Bucky moved his head slightly, pressing half met kisses to whatever skin of Steve’s he could reach. 

“St...Steve...I’m gonna...if we don’t...I want to...”

Steve sat back, bringing his forehead to rest against Bucky’s, eyes watching Bucky’s hand move up and down his cock, thrusting lazily into Bucky’s fist.

“Tell me, Bucky. Oh god. Fuck... Tell me...tell me what you need.”

Steve leaned back down, pressing kisses to Bucky’s jawline, licking stripes down his throat. 

“Steve...”

Steve reached down and wrapped his fingers around Bucky’s neglected cock, stroking in time with Bucky’s over his own. The empty classroom fell silent again, the only sounds were the stuttered gasps of pleasure and the pull of skin against skin. 

“Bucky...”

Bucky lifted his hips, rutting into Steve’s fist, as Steve steadied his rhythm on Bucky’s lap.

“Steve...I’m...I...I...”

Their pace quickened, becoming more erratic with each thrust, each pull, each gasp.

“Yeah, Buck?...tell me...fuck...”

Steve pressed his forehead back against Bucky’s. 

“Oh god...oh fuck...Steve...Steve...Ste...”

Bucky stiffened underneath Steve’s lap, hips lifted and stilled as his cock throbbed in Steve’s hand. He shot rope after rope of come up onto his shirt, spilling over Steve’s hand. Steve thrusted into Bucky’s tightened fist, hips twitching with an unbelievable need to come, unlike anything he had ever felt before. He kept his fist stroking over Bucky’s, knowing Bucky had already come, but unable to stop. His hips snapped forward one last time into Bucky’s fist, body exploding, vision blackening and his come shooting between them, splashing against his chest and Bucky’s, mixing deliciously with Bucky’s. 

Once his breathing slowed and colors returned to his sight, he stared down at the mess between himself and his professor. Steve’s fingers were still wrapped around Bucky’s softening cock, no real pressure applied, almost as though they hadn’t wanted to ever let go. Bucky’s fingers were still wrapped around Steve’s too, come dripping across his fingers, coating over and around the fading and newer scabs on Bucky’s knuckles. With their foreheads still pressed together, breathing in the same air, mixing come cooling between them, Steve let out a soft laugh.

“So...do I get that extra credit?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might take a bit to be posted.
> 
> Wicked sorry in advance...


End file.
